Glad you're home
by is-the-cat-dead
Summary: A Johnlock one-shot. John misses Sherlock Reichebach spoilers.


John closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Breath in and breath out, just like the therapist said, he thought to himself, then grumbled. Damn therapist. She had no idea what he was going through, how much what he saw hurt him. He clutched at the worn arm of the couch, the threads of the fabric bending and breaking under his fingernails. "I've got to keep my mind busy," he finally said to himself, getting up to make a cup of tea.

He put the kettle on, and waited for the water to boil. As he waited, he walked over to look out the window. He brushed the curtains back, glancing at the cars rushing up and down the street.

He heard the key turning in the lock, and he glanced up. That was funny, he hadn't seen mrs. Hudson's car pull up, or a cab either, for that matter. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he said, standing up and walking to his room's door. "Would you like a cup of tea? I'm making some now,"

John didn't hear a response, so he shrugged and sat back down. His face was turned towards the window, but his mind had wandered to the dark place it always went to when his mind was not occupied. Sherlock. John pinched the bridge of his nose and let his elbow rest on his knee. "Oh god," he said to himself. "Why didn't I tell him before the fall?" John had to try had to hold back the tears, the image of his battered body lying on the pavement still fresh in his mind.

John heard the kettle begin to whistle, so he forced himself to stand up. He opened the door, the flat eerily quiet. "Mrs. Hudson?" He said, glancing around the room. She was nowhere to be seen, and he heard no response. He shrugged, and poured the tea.

Even after three years, he still made Sherlock a cup of tea each time he made himself one. "Black, two sugars," he said to himself, smiling sadly. Mrs. hudson had tried to get him to stop doing that, saying that he was wasting tea leaves and sugar, but he couldn't bear himself to do it. He left it on the counter as a sort of offering and headed back to his room.

This was the room that had used to be Sherlock's. It still smelled a bit like him, tobacco ash and black tea. John had kept all of Sherlock's old clothes in the closet, untouched save for the scarves he wore occasionally. He donned one now, wrapping it around his neck and burying his face in it. If he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he could pretend that the consulting detective was still there with him.

John heard the door open, and without turning around he said "mrs. Hudson? Is that you?"

"No," said a smooth familiar voice, "it's me."

John spun around to see a sight he thought he would never glimpse again. "Sherlock?" He said in a shaking voice. His cup of tea lay spilled on the ground, long forgotten. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock smiled, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I'd be lost without my blogger," he said. He looked at the ground, and said quietly "and I love you."

The breath caught in John's throat. "God," said Sherlock. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just, we haven't seen each other in three years and it feels like hell to live without you and-" Sherlock's monologue was cut off when John ran up to him and and pulled his face down in a kiss. Sherlock was shocked for a second, but then he closed his eyes and bent down. John stood in his toes and twined his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer. John broke off for a second, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

"I love you," said John, pulling Sherlock to sit down on the bed with him. Sherlock obliged, putting his arms around John and scooting towards him. "I missed you so much. When you faked your death, it felt like part of me died. It was hellish."

John leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed. "I love you too," said Sherlock, tracing his finger along John's jawline. "It was hard for me too. I was afraid that you would go off and get married to someone else. Only now when all the tabloid publicity died down is it safe for me to come back to you and 221b."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to his closet. He opened it and started rifling through the various shirts and scarves. He grinned, pulling out the big overcoat. He tugged it over his shoulders and wiggled his arms through the sleeves. "Sherlock?" Said John, walking over and tugging on the consulting detectives arm.

"Yes?" Said Sherlock, turning to the blogger and smiling.

"I'm just glad you're back."

"Me too."


End file.
